Bar Thoughts
by rabidcrazygirl
Summary: Just a silly little oneshot with little to no plot and a distinct DRR underlying theme. Rated for Doggett's language. No content whatsoever, but who needs content?


**This fic is (probably) set sometime during season eight, before Mulder returned. Forgive any inconsistencies with the actual plot of the TV show– I haven't seen all the episodes, so a lot of this I'm just making up as I go along. Oops.**

**I love fluff, and this is a fic that is an excuse for me to let out my fluff cravings and also to rant about DC weather, something that I detest above EVERYTHING! The heat, the humidity, the UTTER MISERY! All right, I'm going to shut up right now.**

**No, I'm not. I still have to make a Disclaimer. I got nothing– no worthwhile ideas, no money, no food, no one in the ENTIRE WORLD!**

**I'm going to shut up right now.**

John Doggett rubbed his eyes as he stared down into the slightly oily surface of the beer before him. The amber liquid reflected the dim florescent lighting that filled the room and a vague outline of the fatigued man above it.

_There used to be a time,_ John thought. _There used to be a time when all I'd be interested right now would be pickin' up some hooker or other one-night-stand and just 'sleepin'' this mood off. Ah . . . that feels like such a long time ago, but it can't have been more than ten years._

_...the fuck is wrong with me?_ He thought, angrily taking a swig of the beer sitting in front of him. _I don't usually think like this! It must be the weather._

Summer weather had come early last week– it had hit like a hammer and settled like a blanket. You couldn't walk outside without being completely overwhelmed by the heavy, humid, sticky, damp air. _Disgusting,_ John thought. He'd taken to mentally thanking whoever had invented the air-conditioning system whenever he walked into a nice, cool building.

"John?" a voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned around, beer still in hand, and looked straight into the surprised eyes of one very attractive Monica Reyes.

_Dammit. Not what I need right now._

"Hey, Mon," he greeted her, gesturing for her to take a seat next to him.

"I didn't know you came here," his partner commented, after ordering a beer for herself.

"I don't, usually," John replied, tracing patterns on the bar with beer that was left in rings by his mug. "I typically go over to this place on F street– you might have heard of it, it's called The Dubliner. Gets really loud and crowded around St. Patrick's day, so I come here instead."

"Ah," Monica said, watching John as he drew on the wood with the spilled liquid. "Gotta love those Irish."

"Yeah..."

"It's not St. Patrick's day, John," Monica stated, observing her partner steadily.

"Yeah, well, in this heat, it was easier to head here than to go someplace further out. You know." John said, refusing to meet the woman's gaze. She had always had this effect on him– made him feel unsure of himself, angry because he wanted to impress her but he wasn't sure how. He felt as though he was back in tenth grade, trying to attract the attention of the distinctly-out-of-reach cheerleader.

_Only now I have to see her up close and personal every day,_ he griped to himself. _I know about her flaws, about her imperfections, and she still makes me act the same damn way. And she's even more off-limits than a cheerleader because she's my partner. Fuck._ He gulped at his beer again.

Monica ordered a beer from the bartender and after it came, silence stretched between the two adults as they got lost in their own thoughts. Finally Monica voiced her reflections aloud.

"Do you ever wonder whether Agent Scully was always the way she is now?"

"What do you mean?" John asked, startled by the non sequitur.

"You know. Lost," Monica explained. "She seems like she's continually waiting..."

"For Mulder?"

"Possibly," Monica replied. "For Mulder, for The Truth (whatever it is) to reveal itself, for things to just fall into place so that she can live a normal life, without having to worry about government conspiracies and extraterrestrial life and the stuff that she has to think about now."

"Huh," John said, staring at the woman seated next to him. "And here I was complainin' to myself about the weather while you were havin' an internal philosophical debate two feet away. You sure do know how to make a guy feel inadequate, Mon."

Monica blushed prettily and glanced down at the bar, studying the wood. "Yeah, well, sometimes a girl can get lonely at night. I think a lot."

John tried to ignore the implication of this message, and tried to prevent his brain from running away with fantasies– _I'll keep you from thinkin' at night. I'd take away the loneliness_– and instead sighed and grabbed his suit jacked from the back of his chair.

"Well, I've gotta get back to my apartment," he said, making what he hoped was a good excuse for getting away from this altogether _too _distracting woman. "Call my...brother. He gets lonely too. But not at night. I don't think. I mean–" _Fuck. There I go again._

Monica smiled at him and John very nearly admitted to his lie so that he could stay with her for five more minutes. "All right," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay." And John walked out the door.

**Bunnies, no matter how terrible, must be written down. It's a fact– a rule of life. And this is one of those bunnies. If you couldn't tell. But I'm guessing that you probably could.**

**I'm going to shut up now.**

**Review please, you lovely, lovely readers!**


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